


the one with the soccer mom plot

by narqueen



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, Original Character(s), how do you think the kid got made etc, in which korra is a coach and kuvira is That Annoying Mom You All Know, korvira, mentions of past! Baavira, oh also wuko forever, soccer mom au, tw for lots of mommy kink mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narqueen/pseuds/narqueen
Summary: In which Korra deserves to get paid more, even as she crushes on the meanest parent in her children's soccer team. Also, a Lexus is involved.
Relationships: Korra/Kuvira (Avatar)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 129





	the one with the soccer mom plot

**Author's Note:**

> i apologize in advance for my lack of knowledge on organized sports. thank you to everyone on twitter who encouraged this many months ago.

It’s three weeks into the new soccer season, and already, Korra hates it. The field is muddy, punctuated with puddles that never seem to sink into the ground, and the boundary lines towards one goalpost have been rubbed away by the previous night’s rain. Early October was keeping its grip on summer weather, but by the end of the month the heat would give way to something far more unforgiving, especially for an outdoors activity scheduled from seven to eight PM.

“I can’t stand this job,” Korra whines. “I want out.”

“What?” Bolin watches a golden retriever trot through the parking lot. If it got onto the field, the kids would lose focus with blinding speed. “Don’t be silly. No, you don’t.”

No, she doesn’t. Korra likes kids, plus it’s nice to work with one of her best friends. Tenzin had lured them both into the city coaching position with a fifteen-dollar-an-hour pay rate and a free CPR certification, both of which sounded like excellent ventures for two starving college students over a year ago. For all intents and purposes, it still is excellent. Today Korra’s just... tired. Moody about her International Relations course. Et cetera.

“Mrs. Moon told me that she’s got to leave early tonight, so Mi-Ki’s gonna start packing up his things at a quarter to eight.”

Korra eyes the offside parent section warily. “Which one is Mrs. Moon again?”

“Glasses and brown hair. President of some big tech-something, which is very fancy and impressive. Her husband brought pizza for the last game. Don’t you remember?”

Korra shakes her head. Honestly, with thirty-three kids (split evenly between Monday-Wednesday teams and the Tuesday-Thursday one), plus the rotating influx of parents, guardians, and a varying number of siblings, Korra conserves her memory for the names of the students and not the people who drive them there. To her credit, she does know a few: there’s Pema (usually accompanied by her other children), Senator Raiko and his wife, a polite couple whose names are something along the lines of Zah-something and P-whatever, one rambunctious dad who she’s dubbed That One’s Going To Be A Problem, and Hot Eyebrow Mom.

Hot Eyebrow Mom is new this season. Thus far, she’s come to every practice, unfolded a beach chair, then proceeded to remain standing for all sixty minutes of instruction. Suburban-wise, she’s not atypical: checks off the standard trifecta of black sunglasses, folded arms, car keys kept between her fingers. Hot Eyebrow Mom does forgo a choppy bob for a low bun that’s pulled so tight it looks painful, but still. Unoriginal.

Korra doesn’t know why she finds the woman attractive, really. They’ve never spoken or interacted beyond general group announcements. Maybe it was the way she always made sure to dot sunblock on her daughter’s cheeks. Maybe it was the way her two-for-twelve Target tank tops revealed nothing but lean muscle, from her arms to her shoulders to the top of her back. Hell, maybe it was the eyebrows—two thick, groomed caterpillars that gave Mako a run for his money.

Today is no different. Hot Eyebrow Mom is set up at the tail end of the parental row, upstanding and unsmiling as ever. Even from a distance, the blocky, distinctive shape of her brows over a pair of cat-eye lenses give her a grim appearance. It’s a nice view, providing excellent fodder for stolen glances and internal entertainment. Korra notes that Hot Eyebrow Mom’s tank top for the evening has a murky camouflage print, and privately thanks the Lord Above for her snazzy sense of style.

There is one drawback to the whole thing—Hot Eyebrow Mom’s kid is, unquestionably, the worst player on the team.

“Sue,” Korra calls out, tiredly, “hey, kiddo.”

Sue pauses mid-kick. The bottom of her cleats are coated with dirt. “Coach Korra?”

“You gotta kick the ball like this.” Korra demonstrates, pressing the flat line of her arch against the ball. “If you kick it with your toes, you’ll hurt yourself. We’ve been over this.”

“I’m sorry.” All of Sue’s words come out a little slurred, which is to be expected, considering she’s missing two of her bottom teeth. “I didn’t mean to.” She seems dejected.

“It’s fine,” Korra lies. In truth, the kid was struggling, had difficulty retaining new rules, and could barely follow the old ones. “Don’t be sorry. Just try it again.”

Sue does, and she sort of gets it right, which is good enough. Korra lets her go to monitor Meelo, who was usually ten seconds away from flatulating his way into a time-out. It hardly matters; Bolin is already rounding up the kids for the final fifteen-minute mock game, a practice round for the following Friday’s real one.

It starts normally enough. The kids blunder into one another, sidestepping puddles and generally being clumsy, uncoordinated youngsters. Too late, Korra notices an emerging pattern: Sue, trying to get the ball, is consistently blocked by Mi-Ki Moon’s quick steps. Her little face is split with frustration and—before Korra can intervene—she deliberately collides into Mi-Ki, resulting in a tumbling heap of grassy limbs.

“Sue!” Korra exclaims, just as Bolin blows the whistle. She jogs over, fearing a serious injury, but both children pull away from one another of their own accord. Sue’s face is pinched, upset, but she’s not crying. Mi-Ki, with his glasses askew and scuffed elbows, cannot say the same.

“I think it’s time to go now,” Mrs. Moon says tightly. “Mi-Ki, say bye to Coach Korra.”

“B-bye, Coach Korra,” Mi-Ki blubbers.

“Bye, Mi-Ki. Feel better.” Korra waves weakly. Shit. She turns to Sue. “Sue, tackling isn’t allowed. You’re going to have to sit in time-out.”

To her credit, Sue doesn’t object or bawl or throw a tantrum, all of which are common reactions amongst her age group. She gives a jerky nod, then makes her way over to the lone spruce in the field, plopping down with her back against its skinny trunk. That particular crisis averted, Korra looks back to the field. Man, she should have whipped out some Neosporin. New note for Tenzin.

“Excuse me! _Excuse_ me!”

Korra turns just in time to see Hot Eyebrow Mom stalking around the field’s perimeter, heedless of puddles in her onward march or the way the other parents’ heads turn towards them. Even That One’s Going To Be A Problem pauses his usual barrage of sideline instruction to watch his fellow parent brave the sinking landscape. Uh oh. This couldn’t be good.

“Coach,” Hot Eyebrow Mom begins when she’s close enough, in a tone that begets an argument, “why is my daughter sitting out? That wasn’t a foul.”

“Ma’am,” Korra tries to keep the affront from her voice, and fails. “Sue tackled Mi-Ki. I saw it happen. Someone could have gotten hurt.”

“No, she didn’t,” Hot Eyebrow Mom insists. “They fell. Kids fall. It’s not her fault. Sue has never been a troublemaker in her life. Put her back in, now.”

“Ma’am, I’m the referee. I saw what happened. You may not agree with it, but I make the calls. When the kids start going to games, what the ref says goes.”

Hot Eyebrow Mom takes off her sunglasses, and Korra only has a second to absorb the beauty mark they’d concealed, the brilliant green of her eyes, before she opens her mouth again. “This is the third time my daughter has been stopped during practice in a week. Care to explain why the city councilman’s child can knock over all the cones he wants without consequence?”

“Look, Mrs.—” What was Sue’s last name again? Belin? Beifong. “Mrs. Beifong—”

“ _Ms.,_ ” Hot Eyebrow Mom corrects, icily. “It’s _Ms._ Beifong.”

“Sorry, Ms. Beifong, my bad,” Korra concedes, resigning herself to the inevitability of this conversation’s downward spiral. “We are trying to prep the kids for actual games, which have actual rules. All the kids have to abide by them. I’m not playing favorites, if that’s what you’re accusing me of.” The ‘and you’d better not be’ is implied, unnecessary, but effective. Ms. Beifong’s lips curl into a sneer.

“Korra, is it?” Suddenly, those nicely-threaded brows are not very attractive at all. “And Councilman Tenzin is your supervisor?”

“Yes and yes,” Now her weariness has been replaced with a burgeoning irritation. _Go ahead, lady,_ Korra seethes. _Report me to Tenzin! I’ve been spending holidays with his family since before I could stand. He’ll defend me until you get a bald spot from that stupid bun._ “If you want to file a complaint, you can find his number on the city website.”

“I think I will.” If looks could kill, Korra would be in a casket. Ms. Beifong points at Korra with the same hand clutching her keys. “Put my daughter out again, and we’re going to have a problem.”

“Ma’am, I will have you ejected from the field.”

“Hey, hey,” Bolin, who has been unhelpfully absent throughout this entire debacle, finally comes meandering over from the other side of the field. “Everything all right over here? Something I can help you out with?”

“No,” Ms. Beifong replies, curtly. “I don’t believe either of you can help me with anything.” And with that she turns heel, marching right back to her post, seemingly oblivious to every other parents’ stares.

Bolin puffs out his cheeks. “Yikes! We haven’t had one of those in a while. What happened?”

“She thinks I’m picking on her kid.” Korra glances over at Sue Beifong, who was occupying her time-out by glumly plucking at weeds. “I’m not! I’m just following protocol!”

Bolin claps her shoulder in sympathy. “You won’t get in trouble. Tenzin’s known you for way too long.”

“Yeah.” The floodlights are on now, and they do a great job of framing Ms. Beifong’s deltoids. Every curve of her arm casts its own shadow, and Korra can’t help but swallow thickly, taken by the sight. “I still think she’s hot, though.”

.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” is the first thing Bolin announces at lunch, “but Korra has a mommy kink.”

Immediately Mako’s brows furrow, twisting into a decidedly Mako-esque expression of conservative consternation, which Korra finds slightly unfair. After all, they did date, she’s seen his Pornhub preferences, and she doesn’t think anyone with ‘Asian lesbian threesome’ in their browser history should be making any judgements on what other people found attractive.

“Shut up, I don’t,” Korra objects, albeit weakly, because the current happenstance would undermine her argument anyway. “I just think _one_ woman who _happens_ to be a mom is hot.”

“Oh,” Asami drawls, leaning across the table. The curve of her hair blocks Mako’s disapproval from view. “Tell us all about her. Don’t leave out any details.”

Korra grins, happy (not for the first time) that there is another female lady-lover in her immediate friend group. “She’s tall and ripped and she’s got this really sexy voice and has amazing eyebrows. I mean, she yelled at me yesterday about flagging her kid, but whatever. Oh, and she drives a Lexus, Asami. It’s so nice. You’d love it.”

“Wait, she yelled at you?” Mako, per usual, sounds lost. “And you like her?”

“Can’t stop love, bro.” Bolin makes a show of sighing into his straw, hand against his heart. “Korra has it bad.”

“A Lexus, huh?” Asami taps her finger against the paper wrapping of her burger. “Not bad. I wonder if she’s interested in eco-efficiency over speed. What’s the model?”

“Who cares about that?” Mako gripes. “Korra, Tenzin would kill you.”

“I know, I know.” Korra huffs. “It’s just a crush. It doesn’t mean anything. Plus, I’m pretty sure she hates me. Actually, I might hate her, too.”

“I dunno, Korra.” Bolin, ever-persistent in his conga line of optimism, swirls a French fry in ketchup. “She looked like she could be gay to me.”

“People don’t look gay,” Mako retorts crisply. “That’s rude to say.”

“First of all, _I’m_ gay—well, pan, you know what I mean—so I can make that joke. Second, you didn’t see this gal. And I dunno, I think she and Korra have a good shot at playing together for the all-women’s liberation league, if you know what I mean.”

“But Korra said she had a kid.”

“She could be bi,” Asami supplies before winking at Korra, always the advocate for their shared demographic.

“She could be _married,_ ” Mako puts his head in his hands. “Honestly, how do you think kids happen?”

“Guys, guys.” Korra holds up both hands, willing everyone to go down a notch. “It doesn’t mean anything, alright? She’s just some sexy asshole I gotta deal with at work. I plan on enjoying it for the time being, until she probably gets so annoying that she loses all hotness.” She glares at Mako. “By the way, she not married. I’ve learned my lesson about going after unavailable people.”

Both Mako and Asami wince, and Korra immediately feels bad about hitting such a low blow, the only sore spot in the saga of their friendship. Bolin, unbothered, continues to make work of his food.

“Next time we see your boyfriend, Mako,” he slurs through a mouthful of bun-beef-bacon (hold the cheese), “I’m going to tell him you don’t think he looks gay enough. Wu will hate you for weeks.”

Mako flushes and stammers and does his Mako dance. Asami giggles, then offers Korra a sip of her Diet Coke. It’s noon, and the air is still hot, fresh off the heels of September without the temperature commitment to fall. Korra melts into the conversation, enjoying herself. A woman pushing a stroller passes by the restaurant patio, and Korra does everything in her power not to stare.

.

Tuesday’s practice is rickety, as Tuesday practices tended to be. Without a Friday game, the four-day respite from Thursday’s instruction usually left the kids a little unsteady, whatever skillsets they’d nurtured over the previous week becoming slightly unmoored after ninety-six hours apart. At the very least, Sue Beifong doesn’t tackle anyone today, so she remains present in the practice game until the end. Korra counts small miracles same as anyone.

She’s doing cleanup, hoisting the goal-frame and fantasizing about the nearest McDonalds drive-thru, when she hears the soft give of grass behind her.

“Coach Korra.”

Korra tenses, damn that sexy smoker’s voice, preparing for another verbal dress-down by the most annoyingly-attractive manifestation of a customer service nightmare in history. “Yes, Ms. Beifong? How can I help you?”

When she turns, Korra’s surprised to see that Ms. Beifong isn’t frowning, or sneering, or yelling. In fact, her expression is relatively smooth. “I wanted to apologize for my outburst the other day,” she says, in the most neutral, I’ve-been-through-conflict-management-training tone Korra’s ever heard. “That was unfair to you. You were just doing your job.”

Hah! Tenzin had probably defended her character. Hallelujah to friends in high places. “Well, I appreciate it, ma’am,” Korra smiles wide, because it’s the only way she can effectively conceal her smugness. Unable to pass up the chance at a dig, just a little one, she adds, “And you’re right. Just doing my job. I am the _coach,_ after all. You gotta deal with it.” She swivels away, inordinately pleased with herself. An order for extra-large fries will be placed tonight.

“I’m not done,” Ms. Beifong snips, and it’s so impressively authoritative Korra actually swivels back. “We still need to discuss my daughter.”

Korra blinks. “Ma’am, I already told you, the city website—“

“No, not with Tenzin. And please, call me Kuvira.” Ms. Beifong—Hot Eyebrow Mom, _Kuvira_ —waves dismissively. Korra notices, belatedly, the slight twist of Kuvira’s mouth, a tension in those cut shoulders. “I was wondering if you’d be open to meeting with me tomorrow, at my home. Nothing too long, because I have an afternoon commitment. If it’s not too forward.”

Korra wants, so badly, to be rude. _Hell no Eyebrow-Threader, Damnable Subject of Mommy & Me Fantasies, I will not sit in your Febrezed condo and listen to your grade-A upper-middle-class bullshit! Fuck you and your sedan!_ And, at the same time, she can’t help but feel curious. It’s an odd mix of aggravation and arousal—because even now, against her will, Korra is kinda turned on.

“You don’t think that’s inappropriate?” It’s not a rhetorical question.

Kuvira raises an eyebrow. “Why would it be?”

Fair point. Just because Korra has thought about flossing her teeth with that thick black hair doesn’t mean Kuvira harbored any similar delusions. “No reason. I was just wondering.”

Kuvira’s already penning something down on a pad of lime-green Post-Its. When had she pulled those out? “I work from home, and I have a call tomorrow at nine. I should be done by around ten-thirty, ten forty-five. Come then.” She peels the topmost Post-It off the stack and hands it over. “Bye, now.”

“Sure,” Korra mumbles to Kuvira’s retreating form. “Take care.” She’s slightly miffed by Kuvira’s arrogance, and even more so by her own acquiescence. A deal’s a deal, though, so Korra pockets the Post-It. Maybe she should re-download Tinder. Maybe she should shove her head into concrete. Either, or. Tonight, there’ll be an order for _two_ large fries.

.

As it turns out, Kuvira lives in a gated community, because of course she does, why the hell not? It’s not just any gated community either, Korra knows, as she pulls up to the gate. The Zaofu complex is known locally for being extremely pricey and extremely secure, all tall metal fences and HOA memberships. Korra does the zero-four-zero-six-pound combination twice before the gate creaks open, a rail of spikes uncurling on the ground for any driver stupid enough to exit in the opposite direction.

Frankly, this invitation feels overblown, disproportionate to whatever issues anyone could possibly have about pee-wee soccer, but at this point Korra wouldn’t even turn down a used tampon from Ms. Kuvira Beifong, much less a chance to peek into her home. Korra drives past a neat seam of WASP-y, rich people houses, and feels decidedly out-of-place. In an effort to boost her own morale, Korra had worn her favorite pair of underwear (Victoria’s Secret black satin Cheekini)—a move that feels both silly and childish as she parks in front of Kuvira’s two-story, brown-stucco home.

 _You’ve got this,_ Korra thinks, _this isn’t weird._ She rings the doorbell, once. A bee flies into her face, then makes off into the neighborhood. _She’s just a person. It’s no biggie. Plus you kind of hate her, too. God shouldn’t give green eyes to PTA parents._

Kuvira opens the door. Her hair is in a low, loose braid, which softens the angles of her face considerably.

“Hey,” says Korra. She wonders if she should have brought something.

“Hi.” Kuvira steps aside. “Come in.”

Korra does, whistling as she passes the threshold. “Wow. You have a lovely home.” And then, because she can’t help it, “Great place for a rager.”

Kuvira locks the door. “I don’t know what that means, but I haven’t raged at anything in a long time, so I doubt it. But thank you.”

Not wanting to make the moment awkward, Korra dutifully peruses all the foyer’s accoutrements: two potted plants, an olive-colored shoe rack, a framed photograph of Sue, Kuvira, and a bearded man Korra does not recognize.

What Korra wants to ask is, _Was that your husband?_ But she points to the picture and says, ”Lake Laogai?”

Kuvira glances back from her trek past the staircase, into a space towards the back. “Oh, yeah. My ex’s family has a property there. We still go, in the summertime.”

“That’s where I learned to Jet-Ski a couple years ago.” Korra bounds after Kuvira—who, as it turns out, is leading them to a white, sweeping kitchen—and drops herself into a chair outfitted alongside a floating island of speckled granite. “I fell off several times.”

“I bet you did,” Kuvira returns, dryly. She opens a chrome-plated fridge, disappearing from view as she ducks into it. “Would you like something to drink? We’ve got water, Capri Sun, apple juice. I’d offer you something stronger, but it’s only ten-thirty in the morning.” She squints over the door. “You are of legal drinking age, right? I know the city hires college students.”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m twenty-one. Er, twenty-two, actually. Thank God. Glad I don’t have to sneak around for booze anymore.” Korra chuckles, feebly, nervously. “Uh, apple juice would be nice. Please. And thank you.”

Kuvira plops a little rectangle of Mott’s Sugar-Free Apple Juice on the island counter. She retrieves a Capri Sun for herself, stabbing the accompanying yellow straw into it with quick, impressive efficiency. Korra tries to mimic the gesture, missing the first time, then bending her straw at an awkward angle the next.

“So,” Kuvira says. If she notices Korra’s beverage battles, she doesn’t say anything about it. “About Sue.”

Korra sucks in her cheek. The apple juice is kinda watery, but cold in her throat. “Right. Sue.” She grapples for something positive. “I mean, she’s definitely improved since the start of the season.”

“She’s not very good,” Kuvira offers, bluntly. “I know. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Korra protests, immediately on the defensive. “Also, she’s seven. She doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Kuvira waves a hand. “The other kids are better. She doesn’t score any goals or pass the ball correctly. Personally, I wanted her to be in dance, but she picked soccer.” Her mouth is a thin, amused line. “She likes kicking things more than she likes tutus.”

Korra raises her juice box in a toast. “Cheers to that.” She’s both surprised and thrilled when Kuvira actually bumps the bottom of her own pouch against Korra’s, their fingertips brushing ever-so-slightly in passing.

Kuvira’s face is tight, drawn. “Normally, I would never ask for favoritism or exceptions, but...” She takes a deep breath. “Sue is having a difficult time adjusting to the divorce. It’s to be expected, and luckily she hasn’t exhibited any typical misbehaviors at school or home just yet. But soccer’s something that’s important to her, and she keeps getting singled out, and I can tell it’s starting to upset her.”

“The tackling thing.” In retrospect, this makes sense. While regularly corrected, up until last week, Sue had never been an aggressor.

Kuvira nods, apparently having accepted her child's role in the incident. “What I’m asking for is a little leeway. I know you’re just trying to help, but I’d appreciate it if you went a little easier on Sue. Especially since you’re the one who calls her out and not Coach Bolin. Your opinion means a lot to her.”

“It does?” Korra squeaks, overcome by a sudden swell of guilt. She hasn’t meant to make Sue feel bad. The thought of upsetting little, toothless, pigtailed Sue Beifong is an evil reality to come to terms with.

“Yes.” Some of the tension leaves Kuvira’s face, leaving room for a small smile. “She was particularly impressed by how you can kick a ball into the net on the first try. Also, because you carried both of the goal-frames at the same time.”

“Oh.” Was the room getting hotter? “Well, thanks. Tell her to wait a couple years and she can help me carry some too.”

Kuvira tilts her head. “I’ll be sure to let her know. Though I don’t think those things will be easy to maneuver without arms like yours.”

Korra feels like the human embodiment of helium leaking out of a balloon. Flirting. Kuvira is flirting. Maybe? Was she? Didn’t moms typically comment about how pretty young girls were? So was she saying it in, like, a mom kind of way?

Fuck it. Fuck it! Korra’s flirting back. “Well,” She stretches against the counter, one elbow perched to cradle the side of her head, effectively throwing her last vestiges of professionalism out the window, “your guns aren’t so bad either, Ms. Beifong. Maybe you can help me finish cleanup next time.”

God, she sounds so stupid, she sounds like a moron, and Korra is certain she’s going to be taking shots with Asami until tomorrow morning to forget just how miserably single she is until Kuvira bursts out laughing. “Well thank you, Coach Korra.” Her voice, sweet Jesus Christ on the cross, drops an octave or two. “I’d never thought you’d notice. I thought I’d been wearing all those tank tops in fifty-degree fall weather for nothing.”

There’s a definite tension in the air now, thick and uncompromising and impossible to avoid. Korra’s train-of-thought has gone from making jerky, hesitant stops at every station to fully running off the tracks, a hormonal locomotive gone rogue. Kuvira is fucking flirting with her. There’s no mistaking it. If they were in a club or a bar and not a place where rap careers went to die, Korra would have had her slammed against a wall and getting busy two prepackaged beverages ago.

“Um, I, well,” she stammers, drawing on every bit of her willpower, because the last thing she needs to pencil in on her gratuitous list of mistakes is ‘Frenching my soccer student’s birth-giver, and on a school night, no less’, “I can’t let any rule-breaking during the practice games slide. But, uh, I’ll try to be easier on her. I won’t correct her during drills anymore.”

A beat passes between them. Kuvira sets her Capri Sun to the side, expression unreadable. “Thank you, Korra. I appreciate it. I’m going to be spending some time over the weekend going over the rule book with Sue, too, so she can catch up. Hopefully that will get her out of more infractions.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Korra needs to get out of here. She needs to get out, go home, search up every variation of mother-mommy-mamacita porn ever made (What would she even type in? Mom pussy? Mussy? Ew.), jerk off, and fall asleep. This is an infatuation that will go nowhere, something that has no hope of escalating into anything other than trouble, and toeing the line of it would do nothing but bring sexual frustration and Lexus-backseat fantasies. Korra leaps to her feet. “Actually, if we’re done here, I have to get going. I have a, uhm, midterm! A midterm paper. International relations. Super boring. It’s gonna take forever.”

Kuvira nods, quicker on the uptake. “Right. Let me walk you out.”

Great. Excellent. Relief and disappointment rush through Korra in equal measure, but she hops off the chair with renewed gusto, retrieving her empty juice box as she goes. “Here. I don’t want to leave trash lying around.”

Kuvira takes it, but there’s condensation clinging to the carton’s edges, and droplets of moisture run down her wrist in the exchange. “Whoops, sorry, sorry!” Korra blurts, reflexively reaching to wipe it just as Kuvira draws away. All coherent thought comes to a screeching halt immediately thereafter: Kuvira, her back against the kitchen island, with Korra grabbing her arm, an empty juice box and a lone Capri Sun jumbled somewhere in the mix.

“It’s nothing to worry about.” Kuvira’s tone is back to that cool, guided-meditation timbre from the previous day. “You can let go now, Korra.”

Korra does, but now she can smell the bitter citrus of Kuvira’s perfume, watch the slow up-and-down of her breasts beneath green silk, and apparently Korra’s used all of her self-control today, because her feet remain firmly rooted to the tile, unable or unwilling (or both) to relinquish this breach of Kuvira’s personal space. Bad, bad, this is bad.

Just as Korra begins the battle of beating her endocrine system into submission, Kuvira’s fingertips skate up the length of her arm. They trail up her bicep, her shoulder, before pressing squarely into the hollow of her throat. Startled, Korra looks at Kuvira, really _looks_ at her, and is floored to find a hunger there that rivals her own.

“Korra,” Kuvira says, darkly. Her eyes are very green. “I think it would be best if you stayed.”

And that’s it. Sayonara to every single inhibition and morsel of restraint she’s ever possessed. Korra lunges forward just as Kuvira does, and they crash in together in a tangle of lips, teeth, tongue, hands. They press into each other against the island, flesh digging painfully along it’s granite edge. Kuvira snarls into Korra’s mouth, flipping them around to hoist Korra up onto the counter. Papers, pens, and a soap dispenser are shoved aside in their haste; a second later, there’s a soft, wet plop in the fallen mix of sounds. Found the Capri Sun.

“So!” Korra is laughing, gasping, clutching the back of Kuvira’s head as she presses kisses down her neck. “You like girls!”

“And?” Kuvira demands. Her voice is terse, impatient.

“Nothing, nothing.” Korra recalls Bolin’s speculations from a few days prior, secretly congratulating him on the prowess of his gaydar. She owes the guy a beer. “I mean, I do too! Obviously.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Oh, all the time. Probably more than anyone else. I annoy myself.”

Kuvira huffs against Korra’s collarbone. “And no one’s ever... put you in your place?” A hand creeps up to the juncture of her legs, massaging lightly. “How tragic.”

It’s meant to be sexy, Korra knows that, but she’s never been good at dirty talk, plus there’s the pressing matter of her over-talking to address. “Well, I like to think I’m hilarious, but my friend Mako likes to tell me that I’m the worst person to go to the movies with, but I can’t help it, there are no subtitles in the freaking theater, and—“

“Korra.” The mirth has left Kuvira’s voice. “Enough.”

“Understood! Yes, ma’am.”

Kuvira’s already popped the front of Korra’s jeans open, freeing a strip of bare skin just below her navel. Her fingers, which are long and slightly calloused, slip beneath Korra’s shirt, hiking it up to her ribs. Encouraged, Korra does the same in reverse, clumsily undoing the buttons on Kuvira’s satin blouse from the neckline down. She’s right about finished peeling green satin off of Kuvira’s hard, sculpted top half, before pausing altogether. While Kuvira’s stomach is impressively taut—arguably equivalent to Korra’s own—jagged white stripes splinter the whole of it, snaking along the curve of hips before dipping beneath the top of her slacks. Korra’s got a couple just like them, mostly on the back of her butt and thighs, from a semester when she’d gone through a strawberry-milkshake-a-day phase and shot up two pant sizes.

“Something the matter?” Kuvira’s lips are kiss-swollen, her eyes fierce and wild.

Korra shakes her head. “Nope. Nothing at all.” And then she gets right back to work, refusing to examine how embarrassingly, gushingly wet she’s become at the ongoing chorus of _MILF MILF MILF_ emblazoned on the marquee of her internal monologue.

Somehow, Kuvira manages to tug them up the staircase, past a short hallway of closed doors, into a master bedroom painted entirely in neutral tones. The bed is neat, primly made, complete with the duvet folded at the top and matching throw pillows like the cover of an Ikea catalogue. Kuvira breaks away, and Korra mourns the loss of her lips before Kuvira shoves her back into the chevron print, slinking up the length of the bed in a hungry, predatory way.

“Look at this.” Kuvira tugs the side of Korra’s thong above the rise of her hip, in the opposite direction Korra wants it to go. “Special occasion, Agent Provocateur?”

“Great timing.” Korra’s tugging the tie out of Kuvira’s braid, relishing in the long, dark spill of hair that comes undone with it. “I’ve been putting off laundry. You just got lucky.” Damn! Lying had never felt so good.

There is a moment, when Kuvira begins to pull off Korra’s bra, that Korra is starkly reminded of the situation: that this is her student’s mother, that this is a profound misuse of what little powers her occupation provides, and _Holy shit, I’m going to get fired, Tenzin’s going to use my ashes for fish food._ Then Kuvira’s mouth closes around her nipple, and Korra thinks, _Never mind, this is worth it, screw government work anyway._ An itinerary of Chipotles and Shake Shacks within a ten-mile radius materializes in her mind’s eye. She could work in retail. She could work in restaurant service. Anything would be worth getting eaten out by Jawline-Beauty-Mark Combo Supreme.

“I have to leave at noon,” Kuvira pants. Her teeth graze Korra’s jaw, and Korra jerks her hips upward, desperate for contact. “I have to pick up Sue. It’s early bird day.”

“It’s—“ Another series of blinding, full, tonguing kisses. “It’s what?”

“Early bird day.” Kuvira is licking Korra’s sternum, dotting kisses as she inches down. “The school lets them out before three.”

Frantically, Korra’s mind shuffles through a blurred chronology of her elementary days, abruptly recalling that the district let students from grades K through 6 leave earlier on Wednesdays. In her childhood, it had been the best day of the week, second only to Fridays. Now a raging, irrational hatred against the concept festers in her mind. Didn’t the state score lower on public school standardized testing last year? Shouldn’t the little bastards be in school for longer, learning their A-B-Cs and one-two-threes and not distracting their hot single moms?

“Fine, fine,” Korra grumbles. “But can we—?”

“Yes,” Kuvira hisses. Her fingers are already looped around the band of Korra’s underwear. “We can.”

.

“Well,” Korra says to the ceiling, “that was unprofessional.”

A snort to her right. “Yes, I suppose it was.” Kuvira’s voice is a lazy, sex-sated rasp, and it’s so hot that Korra has to face her, has to drink her in. “Are you going to be in trouble?”

Korra grins. The prospect of Tenzin’s anger is so far away and useless that it no longer inspires terror. In her mind, she’s already started on her Subway application. “I’m always in trouble. I’m used to it.”

“Hmm.” Kuvira’s fingers ghost the curve of Korra’s hip, clutching suddenly, pressing their cores together. “What a horrible example you’re setting. I don’t think you should be working with other people’s children.”

Korra is about to reply with something half-sexy, half-smarmy ( _What? Afraid I’ll meet another cougar?_ ) when Kuvira bolts upright, the black curtain of her hair swinging as she swivels towards the bedside table.

“Shit,” she breathes, tossing off the duvet, scrabbling for her panties. “I have to go.”

Korra follows Kuvira’s gaze, and the initial shock of her abruptness immediately becomes clear. The red neon of the digital alarm clock reads 12:25 in blaring, uncompromising digits.

“Oh damn,” Korra mumbles, joining Kuvira’s dance of shoving on her undergarments, her shirt, her socks. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Kuvira isn’t even looking at her. She hasn’t tied up her hair, either, which only speaks to her urgency. “You have to leave, right now.”

“Got it, got it.” And then Korra’s following Kuvira down the stairwell, snatching her things off the kitchen counter, beelining into the driveway. The midday sun is cutting and white, and Korra winces at the bright of it, holding up her hand to shield herself as Kuvira locks the door behind them.

“Thanks for the juice,” Korra says, lamely, when Kuvira makes a beeline for the Lexus. “I’ll... see you later?”

Kuvira makes an aborted waving motion as she climbs into the front seat. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you. Thanks for stopping by.” Those blocky sunglasses are sliding off the bridge of her nose, and Kuvira doesn’t fix them, even as she reverses the car and drives away.

“It was nice getting to know you, too,” Korra mutters. She’s surrounded by a sea of manicured lawns, two women walking their dogs, and one leaky sprinkler darkening the sidewalk opposite Kuvira’s home. It’s a weirdly foreboding atmosphere, starkly juxtaposed to the entirety of the last hour, and does the slow, sinking feeling in her belly no favors.

“Fuck!” Korra shouts. From across the street, both of the dog walkers glare.

.

Kuvira doesn’t call.

Korra knows this because she turns on her ringer, sets the volume on high, takes her phone off vibrate, sets every single alert feature back on. She endures two loud days of chirping, buzzing, dinging nonsense (largely accredited to the perpetual tomfoolery of the Korra’s Krew groupchat), before resigning to the idea that maybe Kuvira wasn’t interested after all. To top it off, neither Sue nor her mother make it to Thursday practice, which only compounds Korra’s despair.

Not even the sex—which, for Korra, ranked easily in her top three bangarangs ever—was apparently incentive enough for a follow-up, which quickly leads to the depressing conclusion that the hookup wasn’t as mind-blowing for Ms. Beifong as it had been for herself. Against Asami’s advice, Korra agonizes over the encounter, trying to deduce if any of Kuvira’s moans, any of her breathless arches off the mattress, were halfhearted or fake. Sure, it had been a while since Korra had gotten laid, so maybe she’d been a little rusty. Sure, Kuvira was older and previously married and probably worldly in all matters of X-rated adult relations. But Korra didn’t think she was that bad in bed; that she was a ghostable kind of bad. It’s a bleak, bone-chilling notion, and it’s one that haunts her all the way until the end of the week.

“I know you’re judging me,” Korra groans, cheek smushed against the passenger-side window. Physically, she may be in Bolin’s car on the way to their Friday game, but mentally, spiritually, and emotionally, Korra is currently cruising the I-405 to Pity Party City, where she planned to spend the next few months in aggrieved silence and uncompromising celibacy.

“I’m not judging you.”

“You are.”

“I’m not!” Bolin lifts his fingers off the wheel. “I was engaged to Eska, remember? I’m not allowed to judge anybody, ever, about anything.”

“I slept with one of our students’ parents.” Korra squishes herself against the window even harder, taking sadistic enjoyment from the way it blinds her view of their upcoming destination. “That is so bad! I’m a terrible person. I’m a sicko. A freak. Put me behind bars.”

Bolin clicks on his turn signal. At this rate, they’d get to the park five minutes early. “You’re overreacting. If anything, I think Ms. Beifong’s behavior is kinda sketchy. I mean, boning a college student when you’ve got a baby and a mortgage? Sounds like mid-life crisis material to me.”

“Kuvira’s not old enough to be in any mid-life anything.”

“Still.”

They’re pulling into the parking lot now. A few people are milling about the field. Bolin points a finger towards the opposite side of the lot. “Looks like your girlfriend’s here.”

Sure enough, the silver Lexus is slotted neatly in a front-facing parking spot, the only vehicle to score a spot beneath some shade. Korra contemplates killing herself, or calling out sick, then decides against both.

“Whatever,” she mumbles. Actually, it _was_ really rude of Kuvira not to call, even though she‘d expressly said she would. It _was_ really rude just to abandon her on her doorstep. And it was _extremely_ rude to make a girl come on her back and pretend it never happened. Screw it! Korra kicks open the car door, her Nikes landing on the asphalt with reinvigorated purpose. She would find Kuvira, confront her, and—

Per usual, Kuvira’s on her knees, dousing Sue in Coppertone. From this angle, Korra can’t see the entirety of their faces, but judging by the contortions of cheeks and teeth, it’s clear they’re talking. Kuvira must say something entertaining, because Sue bursts into a fit of giggles, at which point Kuvira stops applying sunblock to pull her daughter into a hug. All of the animosity Korra had managed to conjure up dissipates with blinding speed. Ms. Beifong may be a rude lover, a flake who definitely spent too much money on eyebrow-threading services, but she’s a good parent, and that in and of itself is enough.

Sue looks up from the crook of her mother’s neck and points. “Coach Korra!”

Shit. Korra darts behind a minivan before Kuvira can catch her.

“Uh, hey, Ms. Beifong!” Bolin gives a meek wave. Korra gesticulates her plans for an exit, mouthing her thanks before she darts in the opposite direction. No one follows her, which gives her ample time to circle around the park’s perimeter and make it to the storage container at the opposite end. Korra gives herself one, then two minutes, before going about her designated duties. She’s still at work, of course. She is nothing if not an excellent coach.

The game goes fine. The Monday-Wednesday team wins, but Sue does manage to correctly pass the ball a few times, wherein Korra makes sure to cheer extra enthusiastically. Then it’s over, orange slices are set out, and Korra is back to picking up cones from the offsides with one hand, hoisting a goalpost over another.

“Korra.”

Korra almost jumps out of her skin. “Kuvira! I mean, Ms. Beifong.”

“No, no, Kuvira. That’s fine.” Kuvira clears her throat. “Do you need some help with those?”

Korra blinks once, twice. “Uh, sure. If you could get the ball sack—er, ball bag, that would be great.“

Kuvira nods, leaning down and giving the pink mesh drawstring a firm tug before hoisting it over one shoulder. Together they hike up the short slope to the storage container and into its dusty, scorching interior. Korra sets the goalposts towards the back, where they usually go; once inside, Kuvira doesn’t really move.

“I want to explain why I didn’t call, or even come to practice on Thursday,” she says, finally breaking the silence.

“Oh.” Korra’s stomach bottoms out. She braces herself for a clear-cut letdown: at best, an ‘I’m too busy to date right now’, or at worst, a ‘College-age cunnilingus isn’t all I thought it was going to be’. What she doesn’t expect to hear is, “I was dealing with the cops.”

“Wait, _cops?_ ”

Kuvira grimaces. “And some lawyers.”

“But,” Korra’s mind pinwheels, and she can’t summon the patience or the restraint not to pry. “ _Why?_ What happened?”

“My moth—my former mother-in-law. She wants my ex to have full custody. When I didn’t pick Sue up on time, she called her dad to come get her. Unfortunately, that gave his mother a whole new reason to petition about why I’m too dangerous and irresponsible to be the primary caregiver to the authorities. I didn’t get Sue back until this morning.”

“Dangerous?”

Kuvira’s jaw tenses. She adjusts the bag slightly, and the balls make squishy, plastic sounds against one another. “I have... a history.”

This time, Korra opts for politeness. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I don’t.” Kuvira agrees stiffly. Another fidgety few seconds pass. “I—Christ. I ran him over.”

Korra almost trips over the basketball equipment. “I’m sorry, what? You _ran him over?_ With a _car?_ ” Holy shit. Did that fancy silver Lexus have blood in the tire treads? Asami would be mortified.

Kuvira’s face has shuttered considerably, but her expressionless indifference can’t hide the rising pink in her cheeks. “It was not my best moment.”

“How are you not in prison?!”

Kuvira busies herself by untangling the edge of a net. “I was. For a while. But he decided not to press charges.” Her tone makes it clear that the matter will be left at that, an incident with a million blank spaces for Korra to fill in to the best of her ability. She flounders, mentally dancing on a tightrope of potentially-appropriate answers. _Thank you for sharing that with me._ Or, better yet, _I appreciate your honesty._

“Wow,” is what comes out, “that’s hot.”

At Kuvira’s startled look, Korra fumbles to correct herself, cursing every single one of her ancestors for letting those words leave her mouth in that order. “I mean, not the family stuff, or the attempted murder! I mean the rap sheet. The hard time. Ah, fuck. Shit. Never mind. Don’t listen to me.”

“Agreed.” But Kuvira appears less tense. “Anyway, my mother-in-law tried to get CPS involved. Clearly, given the situation, it was extremely overblown, but her sister is the chief-of-police, and she doesn’t particularly like me either, so...” She trails off, her lips pursing, as though to stop herself from oversharing. Between her divorce and her stint in jail and her large, empty house that doubled as her place-of-work, it strikes Korra that Kuvira probably doesn’t have many friends, much less anyone to confide in. Korra also notes that, in all the instances where Kuvira has carried the conversation, it has always been in relation to her child.

“I’m sorry,” Korra says, softly, and means it. “That must have been really stressful for you and Sue.”

Kuvira shrugs. “Everything’s fine now. That’s what matters.”

The container is stuffy, uncomfortable. Perspiration trickles down the back of Korra’s neck; absently, she wipes it away, not entirely sure how the remainder of the conversation is supposed to go.

“Anyways, I wanted to ask you in person.” Kuvira finally puts the bag down, before swiping hair behind her ear. “Next weekend is Sue’s time with her dad, so I’ll be free. I was wondering if you’d like to see each other again? I’m thinking dinner. Maybe drinks.”

An overwhelming, blood-burning wave of delight shoots directly from Korra’s brain to her toes. Kuvira is asking her out. Asking her out on a date, on a dinner date no less, and there’s no mistaking it, no reconvening or reshaping the intention behind it. She’d despaired over nothing, her finger-fucking skills were not so terrible after all, and God help her, Korra _does_ think it’s kind of hot that Kuvira has tried to kill someone. The daring! The recklessness! Korra could jump for joy.

Apparently, she’s taken too long to answer, because Kuvira’s face loses some of it’s self-assuredness. “Or not. I understand, you’re concerned about maintaining a work-life separation—“

“No!” Korra objects, and it comes out as a shout, echoing off the container’s walls. They both wince. “Sorry. No, it’s not that. I’d, uh, love to go out with you. Really, I would. I love dinner. Dinner would be great.”

Kuvira visibly relaxes. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Then she turns; peers out the slit of the door.

“What are you doing?” Korra asks, following Kuvira’s gaze. Maybe someone had heard her yell.

“Making sure no one’s looking,” Kuvira replies, and that’s all the warning Korra has before Kuvira wraps her index finger in the belt loop of Korra’s jeans, yanks her forward, and gives her a blistering, soul-crushing kiss. It’s musty and the kids are waiting and the sun is climbing higher in the sky, but Korra can’t bring herself to care about any of it. Kuvira opens her mouth, and Korra pinches Kuvira’s forest-green tank top, and they both begin to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) yes, there are plot holes. no i will not fix them :')
> 
> 2) i'd like to think "suyin" is actually sue's middle name, but between kuvira being in prison/baatar being at work/suyin getting to babysit a lot even when baavira was together, suyin probably instigated "sue" as the name the kid eventually recognized the most. because, yk, narcissism.
> 
> 3) in my head, the baavira car incident montage runs sort of like that one scene in the wolf of wall street, except in this case, margot robbie (baatar) gets hit.
> 
> i'm user @korvirah on twitter.


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